


The Gift

by abrawmclaren



Series: The Language of the Sword [1]
Category: The Last Kingdom (TV)
Genre: Bigotry & Prejudice, Blood Drinking, Blood Magic, Christianity, Dark Magic, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Historical Figures, Historical References, Murder, Non-Canon Relationship, Patricide, References to Norse Religion & Lore, Requited Love, Sorceresses, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-05
Updated: 2019-12-05
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:53:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21678553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abrawmclaren/pseuds/abrawmclaren
Summary: Upon returning to Winchester following a successful campaign along Mercia's northern border, Alfred rewards Uhtred's loyalty. The two men share an odd moment of understanding and renewal in a time of relative peace.
Relationships: Alfred the Great/Uhtred of Bebbanburg, Beocca/Thyra (The Last Kingdom)
Series: The Language of the Sword [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1562788
Comments: 6
Kudos: 47





	The Gift

There are as many skirmishes along the northern border of Mercia as there are hairs out of place on Aethelred's pretty head, and for this King Alfred is grateful. Their morale quieted following Kjartan's defeat at Dunholm, raiding Northmen obviously disorganized and floundering after losing what was once considered to be an impregnable fortress; a shining beacon for all Danes that the kingdoms were ripe for the taking. While Uhtred's self-interest was what had taken him to Dunholm in the first place, Alfred allows this trespass only because it also stood to benefit Wessex. With Uhtred's blood feud no longer a distraction, he could position the young heathen warrior as a human sword, pointing it toward new threats and new horizons; ever onward toward an England, marked by roads paved with blood.

Uhtred had managed to return relatively unscathed from the last of the smaller insurgencies. In truth, Alfred felt pity for the man; forced to grin and bear his obvious dislike of Aethelred, the only reason the minor raids had ended was indeed due in large part to Uhtred and his devout shield-siblings. Alfred is quietly amused by the perception that he does not find his son-in-law just as grating as Uhtred, Father Beocca, and even his own wife; but these things are best left not given breath, for Aethelred the Pretty may have a use yet; even if only as a stud to birth an heir of both Wessex and Mercia. Where Aetheflaed and the selection of her husband were concerned, it was to bind the two kingdoms together for the purposes of future unification; it would not happen in his lifetime, perhaps, but the roots would take hold and a sapling would spring forth from them. That Aethelred was a pompous braggart was dealt with easily enough; he was terrified of Uhtred, and this only amused Alfred further -- and made Uhtred and a far sharper sword to wield, besides.

But Uhtred betrays none of his true feelings as he delivers his report of their activities on the northern borders, attending the ramparts of burhs painfully exposed to the horros of the Northmen. It is clear from these reports, Alfred thinks, that Lord Aethelred is either fearful of getting too close and raising the ire of the Danes, or that he simply does not wish to contend with the expense of fortifying burhs. He thinks perhaps it is a combination of both. Mercia is not a rich land, at least not in terms of silver, though it is the hope of anticipating their lean toward Wessex for assistance that pushes Alfred forward to increased purview in Mercia - and Aethelred is inexperienced and reactive, besides.

When Uhtred finishes, Alfred bid his guard and those assembled to leave. They do so, although with some reluctance. Alfred supposes this cannot be helped; he is, after all, still a warrior. Still Viking; ever and always a godless Dane.

But he is also a tool. And like any tool, it is to be well-oiled and cared for if it is to maintain its usefulness.

"Uhtred" he begins, standing, with his hand floating above the pain deep set in his burning belly. "Your campaign in Mercia seems to have been successful."

"Mostly, lord. The Danes will not be satisfied until they take a stronghold, even a burh, along the border. You will forgive me for pointing out Lord Aethelred's neglect in this regard."

Alfred clasps his hands in front of him, considering Uhtred with measured regard. While it does not agree with his kingship to be in accord with Uhtred outright, there are other ways to illustrate Aethelred's slip from his graces.

"Nevertheless, I find myself torn between the two of you for lands in Wessex. Lord Aethelred is entitled by marriage, and you by service. Which is more to my advantage?"

Alfred ignores the resulting eye roll. It is as efficient to squeeze water from a stone than it is to chide Uhtred for his petulance.

"If it is by marriage you wish to secure your England, lord, I can scarcely disagree with your methods. I am not a king."

"No, but your ancestors were kings, were they not? You possess the ability to strike fear into the hearts of your enemies, and put the fire of loyalty into the bellies of your friends. My question remains, Uhtred: which would be more effective?"

Uhtred whets his lips. "Were you able to ensure that Lord Aethelred stood able to take measures using his own fyrd and guard to control the raids in the north, lord, certainly that would be the more fitting option. Then his usefulness is twofold: he unites Wessex and Mercia by marriage and by conquest."

"Conquest" Alfred repeats, tasting the word on his tongue. It sounds Dane; it sounds like the kind of word a flesh-starved warlord would say, but it is true. England will not be won with armies of sharp minds - Alfred knows this, which is why he defers to the fighting men in his service to make those choices based upon the knowledge he himself gathers of his enemy. Uhtred does not see the broad scope of this, does not appreciate the intellectual exercises which pair with the fighting arts. And even Alfred would admit that it is, in fact, an art to fight. Uhtred has convinced him of this, time and again.

"Yes, lord. Any king who shows a strong hand and a merciless army will surely triumph. As for service -"

" _Loyal_ service."

"Yes. Loyal service means that a man has a choice, rather than to be shackled by marriage or allegiance. A man serves a king because he believes in his lord, and because he loves his land. It can only be love, lord king. Not obligation."

"Ah, so you believe that a love of your land can incite you to commit atrocities in order to keep it?"

"Of course, lord. I know this all too well."

Alfred allows the resulting discomfort to grow between them, nodding soberly. Neither man wishes to discuss Bebbanburg and its incessant siren song, although both know that the other is thinking it.

Before Uhtred can speak further, Alfred breaks the spell. "You will remember Ealdorman Wulfhere prior to his demise on the battlefield. He loved his land insofar as he would die for it, though as a traitor to Wessex. Is that still love?"

"After a fashion, lord. He was misled."

"Yes. Yes, he was. Wulfhere was a traitor" Alfred says simply, expressionless, as the candles seem to gutter at the sound of his displeasure. "Your accomplishments have gone unrewarded for too long. I would gift you Coccham, if it is agreeable."

Uhtred's eyes lock with his. "It is, lord king."

"It is close enough to Mercia that I may dispatch you with all due haste when the Danes become restless, and you will have land and title - which is, to my recollection, what you desire?"

For a long moment, the Dane says nothing. It is eventide now, and the light in the king's room of piled scrolls begins to fail faster, the shadows shorter, the candles providing only enough ambient light for Alfred to witness surprise and something else that flashes too quickly for him to name ghost across Uhtred's aquiline features.

"Thank you, lord." The words sound plaintive, humble; not at all like the proud warrior who carries himself with every confidence, with no fear and no remorse.

"You will winter there, but return for the midwinter witan. There is much to discuss; I hear talk of two brothers, Danes, who are as we speak amassing a mighty army. I have reason to believe they will wait until the spring. We must be prepared. Of course" he adds, raising two long, slim fingers, milky and pale "Ealdorman Wulfhere was not sincere in his duties to Coccham. You will need to focus all your efforts on earning their trust - their love, even, by displaying that you are for Wessex, you are for the land, and that you are for your king."

Uhtred's face resumes its stony mask of indifference, even open defiance. "I will attend, lord king." Alfred's other exclamations go unanswered, but it is just as well; the king cannot demand gratitude from a simple Dane.

"That will be all." Alfred stands, regarding his oathman, whose vacant gaze can only mean that the king had stunned him into silence.

They stand too close for friends, too comfortably for the enemies which Alfred supposes they are deep down. But when Alfred raises his hand to graze the tips of his fingers along one of Uhtred's many scars, neither man can move further, as though forged from iron.

"Destiny has brought you to me, and I would perhaps reward your Spinners for their foresight". Alfred thought he had perhaps only thought the words rather than spoken them, but when Uhtred's warm, rough skin meets the pads of his fingers, Alfred abruptly removes his hand, clasping both behind his back.

"Thank you, lord" Uhtred repeats, without the usual edge in his voice. "I will ride for Coccham at first light. I will attend the witan in a month's time. And, lord; I will love your land." _I will love you_ , Alfred realizes, watching the battle-hardened warrior regard him with eyes that seemed to shine against the coming night.

For once, the Dane obeys. And it is the most that Alfred has felt alive in quite some time, for reasons he cannot fathom, and it is the least his bones and belly have ached as he watches the hubris-filled stride of Uhtred's powerful legs as he walks away from his lord and into the dark.

 _It is not a gift_ , Alfred keeps telling himself. It will eventually become the truth.


End file.
